3
Kane
Patchwork Perfect
Diving forward, I catch her slumping body mere feet before her delicate skull bounces off the concrete. Hefting her into my arms, I bite off a string of profanities.
Stupid woman. Will she never learn?
With her slim body dead weight in my arms, I work to move lower to the ground to collect the folders she dropped earlier. I toss the files into a messy pile on her stomach and move toward the back alleyway before the cops that patrol this little town find me abducting one of their sweethearts.
In an effort to not make her injuries worse, I get the back door of my truck open and lay her out along the cracked bench seat, and tossing the files to the floor, I pull the expensive blouse out of her waistband and assess the oozing injury between her bottom ribs.
That motherfucker cut her.
And she never said anything.
She went home, she went to work, and she never told a soul.
I thought she was limping because of a sore ankle. I thought he sucker punched her.
He fuckin’ cut her!
I study her injury – the sludgy blood that’s darker than it should be, and the wound dirtier than is safe – and bite off enough ‘fucks’ to make every grandma on the planet turn in her grave.
Why’d you do that, Jess? You know people. You coulda gotten help.
Tucking her legs in, I place her bag on the floor of the truck and close the door. Fuck knows how many crimes I commit as I jog around to the driver’s side, but I switch on the roaring engine and add to my rap sheet.
If the cops pull me over while I head across town toward my shitty apartment with her in the back – bleeding and unconscious – I’ll be shot on the spot.
Shoot now. Ask questions when the coffin is already nailed shut.
I didn’t know this woman before last night, but a name, a date of birth, an address –a license– turns up a bunch of information for guys like me who know where to look.
I know her last name: Lenaghan. I know her address. I know she works for Juliette Jones – though Jones’ last name is now Turner. I know that Juliette’s husband is Chief Turner, the guy who’d get off on locking me up.
So many fucking connections.
I know her brother is Luca Lenaghan – EMT. In fact, we’ve met, though he’d never remember me, and if it weren’t for Jess tripping into my life, I wouldn’t remember him, either.
The family resemblance is uncanny.
I know Jess is closer to thirty than she is to twenty. I know she grew up here. I also know she has some of the best medical insurance money can buy – thanks to Jones Fortune 500 money.
So why the fuck is she walking around with sliced up ribs?
Because she’s stubborn? Arrogant? Naïve?
All of the fuckin’ above.
Minutes after kidnapping the blonde beauty, I pull around the back of my rundown apartment block and park near the stench-oozing dumpster. The single working streetlamp doesn’t lend much light as I push my door open and walk around to hers.
This neighborhood is so shitty, I don’t have to worry about people watching. Carrying an unconscious woman into my apartment isn’t something that’d raise suspicion.
I hate these people.
I hate living here.